Paul Kavanagh

My gun goes pop pop pop not bang bang bang. I wish it would go bang bang bang instead of pop pop pop. Bang bang bang is manly. Pop pop pop is a girl with a thumb in her mouth. Today we have them in a cross fire. I can't wait. It's been a long time. I'm foaming at the mouth.
As I cleaned my plate with my tongue, while I held my plate in my hands, a B52 flew across the table. In its wake houses, roads, people, cars leapt. Grey and dilapidated, the tops of the houses nearly roughed up my chin. A drop of gravy fell from my tongue and landed upon a poor dog. The dog died. Suddenly soldiers and tanks invaded; war filled the kitchen with machinegun bullets, mortar and rocket fire.
Pop pop pop went my gun. My throat hurt me. Your gun will never produce the bang of a man because your voice is like a girl's, said a prisoner. I placed my gun to the back of his neck and went pop! There was no blood, he just stood up before dying and said, You're a dirty rascal!
I put down my plate and was just about to go to War when my grandfather turned to me and said, The worst thing man did was eat the chicken.